


Teflon-Coated Steel Skillets Are So Metal

by honestys_easy



Category: Real Person Fiction, Tulsa Gangstas
Genre: Cooking, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-10
Updated: 2010-12-10
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestys_easy/pseuds/honestys_easy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kyle wants to do something special for his family, but first he needs Neal's help to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teflon-Coated Steel Skillets Are So Metal

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Tulsa_Gangsta's Advent Calendar. This was conceptualized after Kyle had tweeted he was very bad in the kitchen, a few weeks after Neal had tweeted about his cooking expertise. The idea of Neal teaching Kyle to cook was too adorable not to be written. :)

Neal breezed through the swinging door of the Peek family kitchen, in search of a cold beer in the refrigerator, when he chanced upon the sight of Kyle holding a butcher knife high aloft in the air, seconds from bringing it down onto his hand.

“Holy shit--!” Neal sprang into action, his instincts taking over as he rushed over to Kyle and took hold of his wrist, stilling its swift movement downward. The knife’s edge reflected in Kyle’s eyes as they turned to Neal and went wide, startled and a little perplexed.

Neal was at a loss for coherent and complete thoughts. “Th’ fuck, Peek!?” he shouted, wrenching the knife out of Kyle’s hands and taking it into his own. “Are you fucking insane?!” At the most Neal thought he was saving a friend from a dire, and possibly deadly, life decision; at the least, he was protecting his heartthrob roommate’s investment in a decent drummer.

The confused expression on Kyle’s face deepened; it was only then that Neal looked down at his other hand, laying prone against the cutting board, right next to four large slabs of flesh-colored chicken breasts.

“Geez, Neal,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m only cooking.”

Taking a stumbling step back from the surprise of Kyle’s mutilation attempt--or, he saw now, the lack thereof--Neal looked confusedly at the chicken on the counter, then at Kyle; then back to the chicken. The concept of cooking in a kitchen wasn’t foreign to Neal, not since high school when he learned making his own meals was the only guaranteed method of getting fed. It was that Kyle was cooking in the kitchen, and not using the room to make a sandwich, or pour a bowl of cereal. At that moment it made more sense to Neal that Kyle was about to chop off his fingers than butterfly slice some chicken.

When he expressed this to Kyle--a little sheepishly, embarrassed that he jumped the gun like that--the drummer shrugged, his nonchalant attitude failing to hide the earnestness in his eyes. “I just wanted to cook,” he explained; Neal wasn’t buying it. “I had the stuff lying around, so...”

“You just had raw chicken lying around,” Neal called him out. “I have never in my life seen you cook, Kyle. You get hungry, you order pizza, Chinese food. Fuck, you even order breakfast delivered--”

“--If there’s no cereal,” Kyle pointed out.

Shaking his head, Neal crossed his arms in front of his chest as sternly as he could muster--which, considering he still held a butcher knife in his hand, was actually rather effective. Coupled with the look he shot him, Kyle conceded with a sigh. “Nichole always makes the dinner. Or we eat out, or order in.” He shrugged again, though this time, an impish smile peeked out from behind his goatee. “I wanted to do this for her. For...both of us, I guess. Just once.” He broke out into a carefree smile, back to the sunny Kyle that Neal knew. “Maybe twice.”

The explanation made Neal crack a smile; as always, he thought to himself, Kyle’s intentions were pure, but his execution a bit haphazard. Had Neal not wandered into the kitchen at the moment when he did, the choice of the word _execution_ might have been more apt than ever. “So, what’s on the menu, chef?” he asked, peering around the drummer’s slight frame to spy on the ingredients on the counter.

Kyle stood up a little straighter, and Neal could almost swear he puffed his chest out a bit with pride. “Chicken parmesan,” he announced, and with a flourish of his hand he proudly displayed the raw ingredients he laid out on the kitchen counter.

What Neal saw atop the counter, however, was nothing he considered to be proud of: a box of Hamburger Helper stared back at Neal, unprepared and menacing, next to a sad-looking shaker of dried, grated cheese that looked like it had been stolen from a Pizza Hut. The only “raw” ingredient Kyle was working with that day, Neal concluded with a disapproving curl of his lip, was the chicken.

Wordlessly--almost too afraid to speak and actually get the answer--he raised the hand holding the butcher knife and pointed towards the counter, to what Kyle actually intended to feed his family. “...That’s Hamburger Helper,” he said, trying to keep his voice level.

Following Neal’s gaze, Kyle looked at his chosen ingredients, then back at Neal, beaming. “Well, I know there’s no real hamburger in there,” he said, trying to prove he at least knew something about cooking. “But it’s sauce, and it’s pasta. Two ingredients in one!” He grinned as Neal fought back the urge to slap his palm against his forehead. “I would’ve used one of Hayden’s Spaghettios, but I think they would have noticed,” his finger made an “o” shape in the air as he chuckled to himself. “So I’m improvising!”

He reached for the knife, eager to continue his culinary debut, but with a _whoosh_ of air Neal snatched it back up again, his face stony and serious. Without another word he bypassed Kyle, much to the drummer’s dismay, and made a beeline for his ingredients on hand. With a grim determination he pulled his arm back, hand tightly gripping the knife, and plunged it deep into the heart of the Hamburger Helper box. When the knife retreated dry pasta poured from the box’s wound while Neal stood back, triumphant.

Kyle balked. “What are you doing?!”

With another flick of his wrist Neal set the knife on the cutting board next to the chicken. “Making sure you don’t poison your entire family,” he said just as determinedly, taking charge of the Peek kitchen with a set jaw. “Get your boots on, Peek; we’re going shopping.”

 

***

 

When he first made the move to California, Neal assumed everyone in the state ate like privileged hippies settling in the organic aisle of Whole Foods: avocados, sushi, all that salad shit. What he had never realized was how much one particular Californian could prove his assumptions to be completely false. Kyle was as voracious a carnivore as the rest of them, and he received extra imaginary points from Neal for giving him a personal tour of the best wing joints in Orange County. But the drummer took his eating habits even a step further towards the point of no return, his main food groups consisting of beer, takeout, pudding, and Hot Pockets.

Never mind how he stayed rail thin; Neal wanted to know how Kyle was still standing with that kind of diet.

“Real food doesn’t come out of a box,” he explained as they walked down the produce aisle, Kyle looking quite askance at the bunch of fresh basil Neal had just dropped into the cart. “Especially one with a fucking cartoon glove on the front.”

“I wasn’t going to poison my family,” Kyle still protested as he had the entire drive over, his words falling on Neal’s deaf ears. “And why are we down this aisle? Hayden won’t eat veggies.”

Neal was about to comment back snarkily that Hayden wasn’t the only man in the house refusing to eat vegetables, but he didn’t need to: without prompting Kyle picked up a bulb of garlic, examining it for a moment as if it held the secrets of the universe underneath its papery layers, and placed it in the cart.

“We don’t use the whole thing,” Neal reminded him.

“I know that,” Kyle snapped back, though once they left the produce aisle Neal spied him keeping a mental note to himself, in his stringent effort to make this evening’s meal palatable.

They passed through the artisan deli aisle, where Neal introduced Kyle to the existence of fresh pasta, to which Kyle replied that he thought it naturally occurred brittle and packed in blue Ronzoni boxes. Because Neal didn’t trust Kyle’s cooking levels to slow-stew tomatoes, they did buy pre-packaged tomato sauce--Sorvino brand, because Neal contended Paul was a fucking badass in Goodfellas and if he can slice garlic with a razorblade, he can make some damn good marinara. Their last stop landed them in the dairy aisle, where Neal pointed to one of the white lumps of cheese on the shelf that didn’t have “Polly-O” stamped across its front.

“Mozzarella,” he instructed, but Kyle was halfway down the aisle towards the harder cheeses, holding a wedge in his hands.

“Had no idea it comes in _triangles_ ,” he looked at the wedge with wonder, almost not noticing when Neal barked his name from the other end of the aisle.

“But it’s chicken _parmesan,_ ” Kyle pointed out, prompting two men men squabbling in the aisle about the nutritional benefits of cheddar to look up from their conversation, the block of cheese momentarily dismissed. Neal gritted his teeth and wondered if he should ban Kyle from the kitchen altogether. “Why would we need mozzarella for it? The name of the cheese is in the title, man.”

They bought the mozzarella with Neal’s insistence, though even in the checkout line and on their way back to the Peek kitchen Kyle stressed his stance on the matter. “Honestly, Neal, I thought you were a better cook than that,” he said. “Maybe I should be giving _you_ lessons!”

 

***

 

Cooking was like music. Well, not exactly like music, Neal thought to himself, since mastering music took years of hard work and dedication, not to mention innate talent, while up until today he believed any old fucker off the street could cook a decent meal. But there was passion in both disciplines, and a pride and respect in creating something, both food and sound so solid yet fleeting at the same time; something borne out of sweat and blood, a labor of love meant to be shared with others.

Well, apart from the sweat and blood part in food. Neal didn’t think anyone wanted to taste a meal with sweat and blood in it.

The one big difference he found between cooking and music was that Kyle Peek was actually good at making music.

When they returned to the kitchen with their new ingredients in tow, Neal reluctantly relinquished the use of the butcher knife back to Kyle, assuming the drummer had at least learned from his previous mistakes. Kyle once again raised the knife high above his head--emulating either a famous celebrity chef or a serial killer, Neal couldn’t tell which--and planned to strike it down against the cutting board full of chicken. Apparently Neal had been wrong.

“The chicken’s already dead, Peek.” Neal crossed his arms in front of his chest, leaning back against the refrigerator and watching Kyle work. “No need to murder it again.”

Frowning dejectedly, Kyle turned to Neal, who had agreed to advise from the sidelines so long as Kyle didn’t lop off a finger or burn the house down--and from the looks of it, either of those scenarios were incredibly possible. “I’m cutting it into small pieces,” he explained. “You know, bite-sized.” He held his thumb and forefinger up to indicate the nuggets he planned to carve from the chicken breasts. “Hayden’s in this phase...only eats stuff he can pick up with his fingers.”

Sighing, Neal pushed himself off of the fridge and towards the counter, sadly having to take charge again. “You can cut them after you cook ‘em,” he said, taking the knife once more amid Kyle’s pouty protests. “Making them smaller now’ll make the chicken cook different; faster. It’ll make it drier, too.”

With the knife still in his hand--he refused now to hand it over to Kyle, after learning the kid’s intentions--Neal pulled out a roll of clear plastic wrap and laid a sheet over the raw chicken. “It cooks more evenly when you thin them out, though. So, pound them--fists, hammer, fuck, you can use a can if you want--and then we’ll get them breaded.” He smiled to himself, knowing that he presented Kyle with the one task in the kitchen he could handle with expertise--beating the shit out of a set of skins.

With a renewed sense of determination--and the knowledge that he could actually complete this part of the recipe himself--Kyle gleefully pounded away at the chicken, trading his wooden drumsticks for quite a different type. “You know, I think I can get the hang of this,” he announced, while Neal put the knife to good use and began slicing garlic and basil to add to the sauce. “It’s a lot like making music, isn’t it.”

Neal laughed, his smile spreading into a toothy grin. “You know, Kyle, I was just thinking that.”

“‘Cept my drum kit doesn’t make that squishing noise.” He hit the chicken again to prove his point, eliciting a wet _squelch_ from beneath the plastic wrap. “But, I guess if it were made of chicken, it would.”

Kyle was fine with Neal helping with preparation: he poured out the tomato sauce into a small pot and simmered it along with the herbs, and set aside two dishes for dredging, one filled with breadcrumbs and the other for eggs. But Kyle insisted on completing most of the heavy work, expressing his desire for this meal to come from him, to feed his family with his own toils. Taking the initiative after Neal explained the purpose of dredging the chicken in egg before coating and frying, Kyle plucked an egg from the carton and held it, narrow-side down, hovering above the side of the dredging dish, ready to strike.

“What are you doing?” Neal was getting pretty damn tired of supervising every little movement Kyle made in the kitchen. The next time he wanted to make something for his wife and kid, Neal thought, he’d send Kyle off to the scrapbooking store with Andy. “Don’t you even know how to crack an egg? Broad side, Peek, or it’ll get everywhere.”

But Kyle only scoffed at his rebuke; this was something he wouldn’t relent on. “No, you crack it on the end,” he said; for fuck’s sake, he might have been a little amateurish with some cooking techniques, but it didn’t take an Emeril, or a Paula Deen, or even a Tiemann to open an egg. “That way all the goopy stuff comes out one end, and you don’t have to worry about getting shells in your bowl.”

“You shittin’ me? That’s a sure way to get shells in the bowl.” Neal reached for the egg in Kyle’s hand, but Kyle pulled back, indignant.

“I can do this,” he insisted. “I’m not incompetent.”

Considering the rest of his track record that afternoon in the kitchen, Neal wasn’t finding his plea all that convincing. “Just give it here--” he said, reaching for the egg and grabbing hold this time, only to find resistance; Kyle pulling back, his brow creased in distress.

Their tug of war lasted only seconds, but it was more than enough: both men fought for possession of the egg, despite there being eleven more on the carton on the kitchen counter; it was the principle of the thing. Kyle held it firmly but Neal quickly got the upper hand, and pulled with a sudden jerk just as Kyle slackened his grip. The loss of resistance shot Neal’s hand, complete with the purloined egg, right back at him, and, startled, his fingers let go of the slick, white shell.

It all happened so quickly: one moment, Neal thought, the pair had been cooperating like a master chef and his apprentice, and maybe some good food might come of it. And the next, he was blinking back egg in his face, the runny, yellow yolk dripping from forehead to chin, tiny specks of shell sticking to his beard.

“Oh, geez...Neal...” Kyle tried to look genuinely sympathetic but his sincerity was severely lacking. He covered his mouth with his hand, so maybe Neal wouldn’t notice if--when--he started laughing. “I’m so sorry...”

Neal sneered at Kyle--which only caused the egg to run down onto his lip, dropping in a thick film off of his piercing. With narrowed eyes he shoved the rest of the carton into Kyle’s arms. “Fucking do it yourself, then,” he snarled, and without waiting for Kyle to stop laughing and provide him with a response, Neal stormed out of the kitchen and made a beeline for the bathroom.

_Oh, this was some fucking predicament now; really, truly, goddamn hysterical._ Neal fumed to himself as he splashed cold water on his face from the tap, washing off the messy remains of his disastrous first--and last--cooking lesson with Kyle Peek. Kyle hadn’t even asked him for this favor, he was doing it out of his own goddamned will and making sure Kyle cooked _right_ , if he was planning to cook at all. And all it left Neal with was egg on his face--literally.

Swearing off cooking lessons indefinitely, Neal toweled off his face, cursing under his breath for ever trying to contribute to a lost cause. But when he emerged from the towel he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, familiar blue eyes staring back at him, a face that had just sneered and snapped in anger at one of his friends. Sure, Neal had a short fuse sometimes; he could even admit this himself, though usually David or Andy or someone was around to point it out for him. But Kyle hadn’t really done anything to warrant the anger: he wasn’t very good in the kitchen but he was at least trying, and abiding by Neal’s instructions when he gave them. And it was within all of his rights to do so-- _Peek’s kitchen, Peek’s rules,_ Neal thought to himself--since he wanted this meal to be his and his alone, a token of love from Kyle to his family.

It was Neal who had burst into the kitchen and into Kyle’s plans, taking over operations with the intention of making the meal edible; Neal who wasn’t letting Kyle’s cooking be _Kyle’s_. Sure, the kid didn’t know the difference between a saucepan and a stock pot, and he used silverware instead of measuring cups to scoop out a tablespoon, but his heart, as always, was in the right place. And he wouldn’t learn anything if Neal insisted on doing everything himself.

He sighed deeply, staring at his reflection. Maybe he was a little too hard on the fucker.

When he opened the bathroom door a peculiar scent wafted through the air and past his nose; Neal breathed in deeply and realized it was the smell of chicken cooking. Not chicken _burning_ , not chicken being charred and abused beyond repair, but actually browning and broiling properly in the oven. Neal fleetingly thought he had stumbled into some parallel dimension when he walked through the hallway. The more probable reasoning, he considered, was that Kyle grew frustrated--either at himself, the cooking process, or Neal’s bossiness, or perhaps all three--and finally ordered some takeout Italian.

But once Neal reached the kitchen there was a third possibility he had never even considered: Kyle bustled around the kitchen, alternating between stirring the slowly-simmering pot of tomato sauce and spying on the golden brown chicken breasts through the oven window.

Kyle Peek was _cooking_.

“Well, I’ll be fucking _damned,_ ” Neal said, completely beside himself with shock. The drummer’s smile was spread wide across his face, very nearly beaming over his progress. “How the hell--you don’t know how--”

“Of course I do,” Kyle said, before clarifying. “Well...once you told me how to actually make it.” Through all the arguing and the struggle for control that day, Neal hadn’t even noticed that Kyle was putting his natural talent of taking direction to good use in the kitchen, following Neal’s instructions and absorbing every detail of the recipe like a cerebral cookbook. While not expertly executed, Kyle had dredged the chicken in the egg and breadcrumbs--after stubbornly cracking them on the small end, Neal noticed from the discarded shells--and pan-fried them to a crispy brown. They were finishing off in the oven now, cooking through with the fresh mozzarella that, thankfully, Kyle managed to slice without adding a misplaced finger or two to the recipe.

Neal had to admit it: when the kid was left alone with some instruction and given a push in the right direction, he managed to pull out a pretty decent-looking meal. He ran a penitential hand through his hair, biting his lip in preparation for the crow he was about to eat. “Sorry I didn’t trust you with this, Peek,” he mumbled, eyes to the floor.

But Kyle professed quite the opposite, his eyes going wide. “You kidding me?” he said, incredulous. “I would have never been able to do this without your help. I should be thanking you.” A smirk worked its way to the corner of his lips. “You were a bit of a hardass, though,” he admitted.

They laughed together, breaking through Neal’s cover, a bright grin shining through. “You wanna see a hardass, ask Kira to teach you to make a pie.”

Still chuckling, Kyle held up his hands in concession. “I’m still trying to wrap my brain around not using parmesan cheese in chicken parm,” he admitted. “And that you can actually buy pasta soft, right out of the supermarket.” He looked askance at the package of fresh pasta on the kitchen counter, like it was a peculiar, exotic animal he had to master, and eventually serve, to his family for dinner. “I just serve it like that, right? I mean, soft pasta means cooked pasta, right?”

Neal merely shook his head in response, reaching over to introduce Kyle to the wonders that were box-label instructions. Maybe he did need just a _little_ help, after all.


End file.
